I learned the patience of a gardener:

to tear out weeds by the root, to bleed only for what deserves to bloom.

For what deserves my love and care.

You return uninvited, but there is no place for self-absorbed pillagers here.

This garden is guarded, drinking from waters that run deeper than your ever taking hands could dig.

I stand uncovered: skin, scars, the marrow of me. But the steel in my hand says: no more further. I forged it myself from all the wasted chances I have given.

This soil remembers your poison.

You will not walk these paths.

Not with your lies. Not with your hunger.

You didn’t change a bit. You caught me off guard,

but not defenseless.

I will spill and spit blood - before ever allowing you in.

You are a ghost now. A shadow of the past. A trespass denied.

A dead flower alongside the way. A dead flower at an unmarked grave.

A grave, dug all by yourself.